


On Your Toes

by BingeMac



Series: Quidditch League Fanfic Competition [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Gen, One Shot, The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BingeMac/pseuds/BingeMac
Summary: A twelve-year-old Harry Potter is visited by a boy looking for his shadow.  A Peter Pan AU.(Round 5 of QLFC Season 7. Go Kestrels!)Judge's Pick Contender





	On Your Toes

**Author's Note:**

> Title- On Your Toes
> 
> Summary- A twelve-year-old Harry Potter is visited by a boy looking for his shadow. A Peter Pan AU. QLFC5 (Go Kestrels!)
> 
> A/N- QLFC, Kenmare Kestrels, Beater 1, Round 5
> 
> Main Prompt- (Dream Sequence Dimension) Write about a dream that continued happening even after the character woke up.
> 
> Additional Prompts- 1. (Word) Fire, 9. (Song) Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling, 11. (Weather) Cloudy, 13. (Painting) Van Gogh’s The Starry Night
> 
> Word Count: 2835

“Fine weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”

“As always, Mr. Dursley. Have a good day now.”

“You do the same.”

Harry poked his head out slightly from where he was hidden, tucked away on the window seat bench shadowed by his Aunt Petunia’s white drapes. He watched as his Uncle Vernon waved goodbye to a mail carrier, a cordial smile forming under his walrus mustache. Harry turned his attention to the sky and stared out at the gray, cloudy day, wondering how anyone could call the bleak monotony that unfolded before him “fine” weather.

The clouds never grew heavy enough to precipitate, so the fireplace in the living room was boarded up. There was no point in warming oneself if the weather remained a consistent temperature. Neither was it imperative to open a window as there was never a breeze or need of one.

It was always the same at Number Four Privet Drive. 

The Dursleys were an ordered bunch with a strict routine that was rarely deviated from. Orphaned Harry Potter had grown up these past eleven years forced to be a part of that routine. During the day he was meant to perform the same chores, endure the same torment from his cousin Dudley, eat the same meager meals. 

He felt like a ballerina whose toes were affixed to the top of a music box. Every morning the hand of fate would twist the knob compelling little Harry Potter to spin in endless, dizzying circles.

There was never a reprieve from this sameness, day in and day out.

But at night, he dreamed.

Harry’s adopted family were fearful of a lot of things, but nothing more so than imagination. And Harry had that in spades. He was fairly certain that was why his aunt and uncle hated him so much.

The night before his 11th birthday, Harry Potter had a dream, as he always did when he was closed off from the rest of the world in his cupboard under the stairs. In the dream, he was perched on the tallest clocktower that looked over the town of Little Whinging, posed to jump.

He’d had dreams similar to this one in the past and it always ended the same way: He never leapt from the edge. 

Most of the time Harry’s nighttime reveries were filled with adventure and fun. But sometimes his feelings of isolation would permeate his dreams while he slept. He considers those times to be nightmares.

Tonight he felt trapped on that clocktower, like there was a glass bubble around the whole stupid town. He was afraid to jump in case he couldn’t fly, and he was afraid to fall because he knew no one would catch him. And even if he found the courage to leap into the open air, where would he go? He knew nothing else but Little Whinging and Privet Drive and the Dursleys. If Harry managed to burst through that bubble one day, he was afraid to find that what lay beyond his little world might be far worse than his current reality—

Crash!

Harry startled at the sound, and the town faded to black as he opened his eyes to find himself back in the cupboard under the stairs. He felt around for the lantern by his cot and twisted the knob to alight his little room. There was the deafening sound of splintering wood and shushing noises coming form the other side of the door, and Harry rushed to find his glasses. In his panicked state, it took him awhile to locate them, but eventually he had back his sight. Trying his best to slow the rapidly beating of his heart, Harry crawled the short distance to the door, straining to hear what was going on in the living room.

He only heard every other word of the conversation, and he couldn’t differentiate between the different voices. In fact, Harry couldn’t be completely certain it wasn’t just one person talking to themselves.

“I’ll check… split… not a… idea… I’m sure… stop worrying…”

After a minute, the bickering stopped and the house fell quiet. Harry was surprised Uncle Vernon hadn’t awoken during the commotion, and his curiosity about the strangers who broke in was exponentially increasing. It wasn’t much longer after the silence fell before Harry’s inquisitiveness superseded his fear. He pushed open the door to his little haven and emerged into the Dursleys’ living room.

There was ash and debris littering his Aunt Petunia’s freshly hoovered carpet. She was going to be so upset come morning.

The door to the kitchen swung open behind Harry and he twisted around swiftly to come face to face with a boy no older than sixteen, snacking on one of his Aunt’s chocolate bars. He was a lanky lad with wide blue eyes that sparkled with mischief and hair a blazing, fiery red. It lit up the room as if Harry had suddenly left the black and white of Kansas in a twister and awoke in the fantastical world of Oz.

“Hi,” said the boy, a small hesitant smile on his lips. “Have you perhaps seen my shadow?”

Harry gaped at the boy, utterly perplexed by the inquiry. “I—“

“I think Dumbledore got it wrong,” came a voice behind Harry. He spun back in that direction to find another boy nonchalantly descending the staircase, engrossed in the act of dusting soot from his clothes and red hair. Either the first boy had a twin brother or he’d cloned himself. At this point, Harry could almost believe it was the second one. 

“You think so?” asked the cleaner twin, taking another bite of the chocolate biscuit.

“Yeah, I only found a fat kid upstairs and he has two bedrooms. Sure, it’s abuse to spoil your child that much, but I doubt he’d actually want to leave this place.”

“Fred, I found the boy.”

Fred looked up and spotted Harry. He grinned.

“Well, actually,” spoke up the unnamed twin again. “I think he found me.”

“Where’d he come from, then?” Fred looked around the living area and Harry found himself creeping back toward his cupboard. He wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to block the shameful state of his room from sight or if he wanted to retreat back into his little hovel and pretend this was all still a dream. Unfortunately, he didn’t do a good job of either. “Oh, I see,” said Fred when he spotted the little room Harry was forced to sleep in. His tone tinged with pity.

Suddenly, Harry grew angry. “Who are you?” he snapped.

“Oh, I’m Fred,” said Fred, his hand outstretched, as if he expected Harry to shake it. “And this is George. We’ve come to ask if you want to… leave. You know… with us!”

Harry blinked.

“Smooth,” remarked George, who popped the rest of the sweet in his mouth.

Fred scowled mockingly at his brother. “It’s our first time being sent on a mission. Cut me some slack.”

“Mission?” Harry blurted out. Something about the word struck him as odd. The identical teenagers made it sound as if they were secret agents of some kind. The concept seemed far too ridiculous to be real.

George grinned warmly, and again the room brightened. He stooped down until he was eye level with Harry, knocking his brother’s still outstretched hand away playfully. “What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

George’s grin widened. “Do you want to leave this place, Harry?”

Harry swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. All his life, he’d wanted to leave this room, this house, this town. But the glass bubble was thick around Little Whinging. He wouldn’t have a chance of breaking through on his own.

Harry licked his lips. “And go where?”

Fred seemed to shutter with excitement. “An island where the sun shines every day—“

“Over an ocean so blue, you can scarcely look at it,” continued George, only slightly more subdued than his shadow.

“It’s beauty so immense, you’ll think you’re dreaming!”

“Home, Harry,” finished George. “Do you want to go home?”

I’m still dreaming. It’s the only explanation. Still, at least I’m dreaming of escape.

“How?” Harry asked, a sudden bout of enthusiasm at a new adventure. “How do we get there? How did you get here?”

Fred smirked. “We usually travel by fire, but… well…” The more exuberant twin indicated his ashy clothes and the state of the living room with a wave of his arm.

“We can’t use that way to get back,” George agreed. “It’s a miracle we made it here okay with the fireplace boarded up as it was.”

“We’ll have to fly,” Fred announced.

Fly?! 

“But— I can’t fly,” Harry muttered, so low it was barely audible in the quiet night. He deflated at once, thinking his imagination cruel to offer a way of escaping only to pull the rug out from under him again. He’d never flown in his dreams. It was the only adventure he’d never had.

“Sure you can,” replied Fred easily, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll teach ya.”

“I’m afraid of falling,” Harry explained dejectedly.

George’s smile was understanding. “Well, that’s why we’ll start on the ground and work our way up.”

“Come on!” Fred jumped up and down, squeezing Harry tightly. “Let’s go outside. It’s stuffy in here.”

Harry allowed the twins to lead him outside the house and into the garden. The air was cool and Harry could feel a slight breeze that raised goose pimples on his skin.

“Here you go, Fred.” Fred unfurled himself from Harry’s side and grabbed the broomstick his brother held out gratefully. “And here’s one for you, Harry.”

“A broomstick?”

“Well, of course,” George replied easily. “We can’t fly without some help from the earth.”

“Here’s how it works, Harry. Mount it just like this and then leap into the air! It’s that simple.”

And it was that simple for Fred. One second his feet were on the ground and the next he was floating five meters up, grinning down at a gobsmacked Harry Potter.

Harry felt the wood of George’s extra broomstick tap his palm. He turned toward the still earthbound twin.

“I’ll wait for you,” George stated. “Don’t worry; take your time.”

Harry took a calming breath before mounting the broom handle as Fred had done.

“That’s good form,” George remarked. “Hold the broom a little looser, though— That’s it. Now, on your toes. Do you feel the wind? Like fire and earth, wind is a force of magic we all can yield—“

“You just have to believe, Harry,” called Fred from high above him.

Harry closed his eyes, trying his best to believe. He didn’t think it was working, just like all the other times he tried to fly in his dreams. Why would this time be any different? 

But when he opened his eyes again, he saw that Number Four Privet Drive was far below his feet, and the clouds above had cleared. The wind had scattered the hazy sky until a vast starry night loomed before Harry, each of the fire-haired twins on his side. Harry had never seen a more beautiful sight.

“I—“

Harry had no words.

“See that star, Harry?” asked George, pointing in the far distance. “The bright one, just there?”

“Yeah."

“Well, that will lead us home.”

Harry nodded his head. He understood. He was going home.

And as they soared further up, and up, and up, the night sky became a swirl of colors, bright orange balls of flame filling up his vision, the stream of wind coloring the dark blue twilight with purples and whites, a yellow crescent moon tinging the sky turquoise. Harry knew the town of Little Whinging was asleep below, but he didn’t spare it a glance. The three boys just flew higher, and higher, and higher.

Harry’s vision blurred and he felt dizzy. He knew the dream was ending soon, but he didn’t dare blink until the last possible second. His eyes stung from the wind and unshed tears. Finally, his eyelids fell closed and everything went black.

***

Harry tried his best to cling to the last vestiges of sleep. He wanted to stay in that darkness for a little while longer. Even the black behind his eyelids was better than the gray world of Little Whinging.

But when Harry finally winked open an eyelid, he was not greeted with the stuffy confines of his little corner of hell under the stairs. Instead there was a girl, younger than Harry, with hair kissed by fire and eyes that sparkled with gold, seated in a chair, flipping the page of an unidentifiable book. He must have made a noise of some kind, for she glanced up from the pages with a frightened squeak. Seeing that Harry was awake, she stumbled out of the chair and darted from the room, her book clutched firmly against her chest.

“Wait—“ Harry croaked. But she was already gone. “Where am I?” he wonder aloud.

“Sorry about my sister,” said yet another redhead who came waltzing into the room. He slumped into the chair at Harry’s bedside, stuffing the last of a granola bar in his mouth. “Ginny’s shy around the new lost ones,” he explained while he chewed. He held out a hand. “I’m Ron.”

“Harry…” He returned the handshake as if he wasn’t actually certain their fingers would make physical contact. But they did. “Er… what happened?”

"You fainted apparently. Pomfrey said entering Hogwarts could do that to some people, but I’ve never seen it. Fred and George flew you here thinking they killed you or something.”

Am I still dreaming?

And then another more terrifying thought entered his mind.

“They didn’t kill me though… right?”

Ron blinked, clearly startled by the question. “You don’t look dead to me,” he answered matter-of-factly. And the thing is, Harry believed him.

“Oh. Good then.” Harry glanced at his surroundings. It seemed like a hut of some kind, the wood paneling a light pine color that met in the middle like a teepee. There were wide windows with sheer curtains that rippled in the gentle breeze. There was a certain salty sea smell to the air and a fire burned in a lamp on his bedside table. It was like a fantasy come to life. “So, what’s Hogwarts?”

Ron grinned. “It’s the name of the island.” Harry raised a dubious eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t name it.”

“Did I name it?” Harry blurted out before he could think better of it.

Ron furrowed his brow in confusion and concern. “I— uh— I doubt it,” he stated succinctly. Again, Harry couldn’t help but believe him.

Just then an elderly man with a long white beard that hung down way past his waist, wearing robes of blue with white stars, strode into the room.

“Good Morning, Mister Weasley,” he said, greeting Ron. “I didn’t expect to find you here by Mister Potter’s bedside. Decided to make a friend, have we?”

Ron shrugged, a non-answer.

“Ah, well I can understand that. But I need to speak with Mister Potter alone. There is another lost one that arrived yesterday. Perhaps you could show Miss Granger around the island. Two new friends are better than one, I believe.”

Ron made a face as if he did not like this idea very much, but something told Harry that people rarely said no this man with the twinkling blue eyes, whoever he was. 

Ron sighed. “Yes, sir,” he replied dejectedly. He waved goodbye to Harry and left the room. Once the door shut behind Ron, Harry and the old man were alone.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Harry,” said the old man, a pleasant smile forming under his white beard. He settled into the chair Ron had previously occupied. “I apologize that your arrival went so poorly, but I expect once you are better, you’ll find the island most enjoyable. Oh my, I fear I have not introduced myself yet. Let me remedy that. I am Albus Dumbledore and this is Hogwarts. Do you have any questions for me?”

Harry had many question, actually. 

Why am I here?

Is magic real?

What’s a lost one?

Who are all the redheads?

How do you know my last name?

And those were only the start of his inquiries. 

Dumbledore waited patiently as Harry gathered his thoughts, and Harry basked in the serenity of the ancient man’s calm presence. And it was in that sense of peace, Harry discovered the question with which he most desperately wanted an answer.

“Sir,” Harry began, using the honorific Ron had said earlier. “I have to ask… Am I still dreaming? I mean— is this real? Or is all of this happening inside my head?”

The old man smiled, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry,” Dumbledore answered. “But why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”


End file.
